


Drawn Together

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Mutual Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, oh my god they were soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-13 09:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14746644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: Leofric has long since given up hope of finding his soulmate. He has heard his words spoken too many times, by too many people, to believe that he will ever know for certain.Uhtred knows that Leofric is his soulmate the moment he hears him speak his words. The only problem is, they both hate each other on sight.





	Drawn Together

**Author's Note:**

> Yayyyy we're getting a third series!! I wrote this to celebrate - y'know, over a month later.
> 
> The classic soulmate AU, where the first words your soulmate says to you are marked on your body.

Leofric thinks, when he is younger, that the phrase marked above his hipbone is so unusual as to be distinctive—that he will know his soulmate the moment he hears it.

When he first discovers what his mark says, the priest speaks the words with something akin to awe. After all, no one expects the son of a farmer—the son of a slave—to ever serve a king.

Nor do they expect him to leave the fields of his homeland—yet, that is the path he finds himself on; first through battle in the service of the King of Mercia, and eventually settling in the town of Winchester under the King of Wessex.

 

 

Over the years, he meets hundreds of people seeking an audience with the King, and many of them speak the words seared on his skin. Messengers, and priests, and nobles from other kingdoms—

(—and always, always, men. He lies awake at night, unable to believe it of himself. Surely something, somewhere, has gone wrong. But he has been taught that everything is by God’s design, and, he supposes, this too must be.)

He has long grown accustomed to hearing his words. No longer does his heart leap when he greets someone on the stone steps and they state their business; he simply leads them to the King’s council and does not dwell on his mark. Sometimes, in a rare moment, if he catches their eyes on him during the meeting, he allows himself to wonder—

(—perhaps he spoke their words, and that’s why they are looking at him—)

—but it goes no further.

 

 

His sister—now a favourite of the King’s brother, Prince Alfred—teaches him how to read and write, in secret, passing along the learning she has picked up. In return, he does not comment on her closeness to the heir apparent.

He slowly begins to understand the markings on his skin—learns that they do say what the priest told him, years ago. Until that moment, he had hoped the man had been mistaken—that his words would be more distinctive; but they are not. Any one of the scores of men he has met could have been his soulmate, and he will never know which.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter—perhaps some people are destined never to find their one. Perhaps it is possible to find more than just one. There are certainly enough women to sate the body’s physical urges, if not the emotional.

(He tells himself that it is enough. He has to.

What use is a soulmate to a warrior, anyway?)

 

 

There is no sign—that cold, grey morning—that today will be any different to all the others that have preceded it. He goes about his duties, as he does every day.

Just before noon, a messenger arrives with a missive from the King of East Anglia—a plea for an army. Leofric shows him through to the King, and stands there, listening to the report. It seems that battle will soon be upon them once more, despite the King’s decision to refuse to assist in East Anglia. The Danes are heading for Wessex, as they always knew they would.

It is after the meeting, as he is walking through the courtyard, when he hears it—the low rumblings of a commotion beyond the walls.

There is a crowd gathering in the street below, booing and shouting. He emerges at the top of the stone steps and sees the cause of the disturbance—two people, on horseback, riding up the street towards him. They have the weary appearance of those who have been travelling for a long time. They look—

They look like Danes.

He raises a questioning eyebrow, waiting for the newcomers to introduce themselves. He has met plenty of people on these steps, and none have ever looked so clearly uninvited.

It is because he has greeted so many people here that he does not flinch, despite their appearance—not even when the man opens his mouth, and says—

“We have business with the King.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Uhtred is still a boy when his words appear, the stark black lines standing out against his pale skin. He shivers in a cold corner of the Viking hall, lowers his shirt, and tells no one.

(His father had once told him that his mark would appear when he became a man, in a rare moment of openness between them.

He does not feel like a man yet—just a boy who has lost everything known to him.)

The Danes do not kill him, that night. He becomes their slave and bears it with as much dignity as he can—thinking on the lands that will one day be his, and the person he will one day find, who will also be his. He imagines a wife—perhaps with red hair, like Thyra, or brown hair, like Brida. He thinks of her beauty, and the children she will have for him.

It is his only escape from the harsh reality of his current circumstance.

 

 

His captors become his family, and, with their help, he learns the meaning of the letters branded above his hipbone. His brother Ragnar laughs at the insult when he grudgingly explains it. The words are hostile, and nothing like what he had dreamed they might be, those long nights when he was still a slave, fingertips pressed against his hip.

The gods must be playing some sort of trick on him, he decides. When people find their one, it should be uplifting, he has been told—a joining of two souls—not a confrontation. He has carried the anticipation of this union with him for months, warming him through the bleakest of times. His soulmate has felt like a constant companion, even when he had no one.

His soulmate, apparently, will hate him on sight.

 

 

Brida is not the one, he knows, but it does not prevent them from becoming close. There is no guarantee that a person will find their soulmate in life—

(—there is no guarantee his will even like him. There is a chance that his soulmate may have another—that he is not theirs.)

—and as the years have passed, he finds he thinks of them less and less. The familiarity that has developed between Brida and himself is enough.

Their bond only strengthens once their family has been slaughtered. He often feels as though she is the only person in the world who can understand him, now—calming his anger and smoothing his rough edges. He does not know how his soulmate will ever compare.

In the dead of night, when Brida is asleep next to him, he lifts his shirt and stares at the words, trying to feel anything but dislike for the person he is destined for.

(Sometimes, he almost manages it.)

 

 

In their long, arduous journey south, they encounter a number of people who hurl insults at them—but none speak his word.

(He finds he thinks of it possessively, now.)

They are Danes, and the way people react to that is far more dangerous than any insult. The way villagers stare at them as they pass through their towns keeps them constantly on edge and itching to reach for their daggers.

The chieftain Ubba is not the saviour they hoped he would be. The King of Wessex is now their only option, as Father Beocca had told him years ago—if only they can make it as far as Winchester.

 

 

The settlement sprawls out below them, beyond the fields and forest. It is hard to believe that this place could hold their salvation. But Brida is by his side as they ride through the gates and into the muddy streets. It makes it easier to endure the shouts and boos of the crowd.

As they approach the stone steps, a number of armed guards appear from beyond the walls, followed by a man who seems even more unwelcoming than his fellows—staring down at them and clearly unwilling to extend an invite.

“We have business with the King, Aethelred,” he tells the man—irrationally riled by his bored expression and the insolent jut of his chin. “I say we have business with the King.” The man still says nothing, still stares down at them. He cannot resist pushing further. “Do you not understand English?”

There is a strange sort of satisfaction in seeing the man’s eyes narrow in confrontation. Then his stomach drops and his heart starts pounding furiously against his ribcage when the man opens his mouth, and says—

“Is that what you’re speaking, arseling?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Leofric glowers down at him. “You sound like a Dane.”

The man’s expression falters for only a moment, then his cocky smile is back in place. “Why do you dress as a warrior when you’re clearly a farmer?”

There is a sharp jab of anger—something he has not felt in a long time. To be insulted in front of his own men without consequence cannot be permitted. “Farmer, am I?” he scoffs, trying not to think of his time toiling in the fields as a child. “Well, I’d wager this farmer against you at any time.”

The man—Uhtred, as his companion refers to him—takes it as an immediate challenge, which is fine by him. There is something about this Dane that unnerves him, and he has faced many in battle.

(Something about him is different.

He refuses to allow himself to dwell on why that might be.)

“What is it, farmer?” Uhtred calls. “First blood, or to the death?” He leaps from his horse.

Leofric descends the steps to meet him. “I’ll be splitting your skull, boy, so one follows the other.”

The arseling only grins at him in challenge, cocky and insolent. Before they have chance to draw their swords, however, Father Beocca interrupts them with a joyful cry of Uhtred’s name.

Uhtred’s smile at being reunited with the man he knew in his childhood—genuinely happy now, as opposed to arrogant—stirs something within Leofric that he does not know how to name.

Then he turns to face Leofric again and the smile drops from his face, the haughty expression returning. It makes it easier to dislike him.

He may not be entirely comfortable with it, but the priest vouches for Uhtred. It appears he will not be rid of him yet.

(If he allows his eyes to linger on Uhtred as he departs, there is no one else to see it for what it is.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

Beocca leaves them alone in the courtyard while he goes to find Alfred and announce their arrival. The warrior—Leofric, Uhtred recalls, from the shouting of the crowd in support of their aborted fight—scowls at him as he strides past, following Beocca into the palace.

Their meeting has clearly had less of an impact on the Saxon than it has on himself. Perhaps he had been right when he thought their marks would not be mutual.

When he turns, he finds Brida already staring at him, one eyebrow arched in question.

“So?” she demands, expectantly.

Uhtred knows she has seen his words—as he has seen hers, curved along her thigh.

(She insists she does not know who they belong to. He knows they are not his. He is thankful for that, at least—for her sake.)

He knows that neither of them expected this outcome.

“What?” he responds testily, used to reaching for accusation and anger as his defence. But Brida is the one person who can see through him and knows him for who he is.

“Don’t play dumb with me— _arseling_ ,” she says pointedly. “You know it as well as I do.”

He takes a step towards her, lowering his voice. “Just leave it,” he says urgently. Then, softer, “Please.”

It is not her fault that his soulmate is a Saxon farmer, turned warrior, rough and hardened—

(—and who, as he was right in thinking, hates him.)

Brida nods and steps away. He is thankful that she does not feel the need to draw attention to the fact his soulmate is a man. He has heard all of those particular insults in both languages.

 

 

Throughout the meeting with Alfred, then, later, with the King, he can feel Leofric’s eyes on him. His gaze is hard, uncompromising, and he wears an expression of barely veiled dislike.

Uhtred does not allow himself to look at him too often.

(He will not betray himself.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

It transpires that the arseling is the rightful Ealdorman of Bebbanburg. It also transpires that he is an idiot—immediately putting himself in danger and spying on the ranks of the Danish army at Readingum.

The King’s council—particularly, Leofric notes, the Lord Odda’s son—is quick to damn him, and yet Leofric can sense that the man is telling the truth. He dares not speak out, especially not against the Prince and his Lord, but luckily, the King appears willing to trust Uhtred.

So too, in the end, does Alfred—but only as far as accepting his word that the Danes will attack before winter. He commands for Uhtred to be seized and made secure.

Leofric has no choice but to obey.

The arseling glares at him, hatred and betrayal in his eyes, as the guards drag him from the hall. Leofric makes sure to return the stare unfalteringly.

(He will not betray himself.)

 

 

That night, he lies in bed and cannot prevent himself from thinking about the man, somewhere below, suspended in a cage outside the palace like an animal. Leofric had seen him, earlier, bearing the ignominy of being locked up with a glower and an enraged shout at the jeering townspeople. He had made sure he was out of Uhtred’s sight during the spectacle. The man needs no more reason to hate him.

For the first time in many years, he lifts his shirt to stare at the words written on his skin.

(He has never been able to forget them, but it has been pointless to wonder—

Until now.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

Uhtred wants to hate the man—really, he does. Leofric is rude, and gruff, and very difficult to get along with. He barely ever looks at him.

Yet, when the Ubba demands his execution in exchange for the peace Alfred is bargaining for, Leofric moves to stand between them, shielding him from the Dane. Putting himself in danger, if it came down to it.

(Putting himself in danger for _him_.)

Then Ubba moves, suddenly—a scare tactic, more than to cause actual harm—but Uhtred’s heart seizes in panic for the man in front of him. Of course, he’s too far away to do anything other than raise his arms instinctively, but luckily Leofric is prepared and pushes the Dane back.

He glances briefly at Leofric when Alfred refuses Ubba’s terms, but Leofric is not looking at him. He cannot read the expression on his face either—cannot tell if he looks relieved or not. Perhaps Uhtred’s life does not matter to him, after all.

 

 

As he considers the King’s request that he swear an oath to him, and pledge his sword for a year, Uhtred finds his eyes drawn to Leofric’s retreating back. He does not think the man will be so keen to have him teaching his men—teaching _him_ —how to fight like a Dane.

“He is a Saxon,” Brida says harshly, when he tells her of Alfred’s demand. Her eyes pierce into him angrily, and for a moment, he is not sure whether she is talking about the King, or Leofric.

(His uncertainty is a sign of where his own thoughts lie.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

To say that Leofric is less than pleased at the King’s proposal is a woeful understatement. He is indignant—not just at the insinuation that the Dane knows anything worth teaching his men that he already hasn’t, but that he himself is somehow lacking.

He can feel Uhtred’s eyes on him, no doubt glaring, but he does not care. To his surprise, when he looks over, the arseling is not scowling at him—instead, he seems almost disappointed to have provoked his anger. He does not appear to share Leofric’s wry amusement at the King’s mention of whipping him with staves in practice, but no matter. The defiance in his eyes as he stares Leofric down is enough to kindle his interest.

(There is something about this man that he does not know how to counter. It is not something he has ever needed to steel himself against.)

 

 

It turns out that the arseling has a natural ability to lead, and, grudgingly, Leofric has to appreciate his skills as a warrior. He stares Uhtred down across the cold, hard ground of their makeshift battlefield, and doesn’t know how to interpret the thrill he feels when Uhtred grins back at him, teeth bared in gritty resolve.

Somehow, no matter how many times the sides charge at each other, he always finds himself facing Uhtred, one-on-one. He gets the upper hand on most occasions, but it does not prevent Uhtred from opposing him with continued determination, despite becoming increasingly bloodied and bruised.

He finds himself watching the construction of the shield wall with a respect he has never felt for anyone—not even the King.

(If Uhtred’s proud smile twists something within him, he can only hope it doesn’t show.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

A few weeks ago, Uhtred would have found it inconceivable to sit opposite Leofric, to drink and share a meal. More than that—to share a companionable silence.

He cannot deny the strange thrill that courses through him when Leofric quips, “She’s been with the wrong Saxons,” with a wry amusement that is reserved all for him. It doesn’t matter that he is talking of Brida.

(He wishes he could banish the thoughts that those words conjure.)

To find that they can share conversation as well as silence is a further revelation. Leofric seems to have let his guard down—maybe only for this evening, but Uhtred finds himself absurdly grateful for it anyway. Leofric is honest in his thoughts, to the point of quietly insulting the King in front of him. It shows a trust that staggers Uhtred—he doesn’t know what he has done to deserve it.

When Leofric introduces the newcomer to their table, Aethelwold, as another arseling, he feels strangely jealous.

(He has spent so many years hating that word, but now he wants it to be his and only his.)

Leofric looks at him with undisguised amusement as Aethelwold speaks, and when he catches his eye, Uhtred cannot prevent the genuine smile that tugs at his lips. It is the friendliest he has ever seen the man.

(He will treasure it more than he probably should.)

Jealousy rears its ugly head again when Leofric eyes up the barmaid. Uhtred finds himself thinking, unbidden, that it is further proof that he is not Leofric’s soulmate. Why would the Saxon be interested in him, after all, when there are plenty of beautiful women around? But then Leofric looks back up at him, and his eyes are shining.

(He hopes that his thoughts are not obvious from his own.)

 

 

His course is set, and it is not enough to keep Brida with him. In the end, she does not share his reasons for staying, and he cannot blame her. He remembers the look she and Ragnar had shared, after their tender hug, and thinks that perhaps she has the same reason for leaving that he does for staying.

He watches the boats sail, and although he feels bereft, it is nothing like the sinking, leaden sensation that had settled in the pit of his stomach when Brida had told him that they could join Ragnar’s men and leave England.

(It is not England he fears leaving behind.)

Once, he would never have thought that he could lose her and survive. But then he hears the soft footfalls of someone approaching—knowing instinctively who it is—and knows that he will survive it. She may have been half his life, but he has a wild hope that the man next to him will be the rest of it.

Leofric looks at him carefully, as though he is afraid of how Uhtred will react to his words. He is as open and honest as he was two evenings previously, and although Uhtred cannot prevent the bitterness in his tone, he knows that all the anger he has is for Alfred, and none of it for the man beside him.

“Of course, when the year’s up, you could go back to the Danes,” Leofric points out, and Brida’s words ring in his ears. He thinks he will not mind if it starts with a year and becomes a lifetime. Then, Leofric quips, “That would at least give me the chance to kill you.”

Uhtred gives a small laugh and wonders quite when the suggestion became a joke between them, rather than a serious desire. He cannot trace the moment—all he knows is that it has happened.

(He wonders if Leofric is as glad of that fact as he is.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

The arseling wants a land and title, so Alfred ensures that he gets it—through marriage.

Uhtred bears it churlishly, as Leofric expected. “I don’t want a wife,” he sulks, lounging against a stone column as they stand together by the steps, waiting for the arrival of his bride.

“You are lucky,” Leofric tells him. “Most warriors do not have a land and title—never mind two.”

Uhtred’s eyes are sharp, no doubt as he thinks of Bebbanburg, but they soften the longer he looks at Leofric.

“Do you have a home to return to, after?” he asks quietly.

Leofric shakes his head. “Mercia has not been my home for many years now. I am Lord Odda’s man; that is my place.”

“And a wife?” Uhtred asks cheekily.

“Careful, arseling,” Leofric warns, but there is no heat in the words. He wonders when the man’s attitude became endearing to him, rather than irritating. He cannot trace the moment—all he knows is that it has happened.

 

 

Uhtred asks Leofric to accompany him to the wedding, as though he has not considered that Alfred has commanded him to be there. It is as though Uhtred actually wants him there, by his side.

They make it to the church eventually, despite Uhtred’s initial reluctance. They both know this marriage serves a purpose, and for now, that has to be enough. There will be plenty of time later for Uhtred’s blood feud.

(He finds he is imagining himself in that future too, riding to Bebbanburg alongside Uhtred.)

When Uhtred freezes at the altar, suddenly unable to approach his bride, Leofric allows himself to place a guiding hand on his back. He can only hope Uhtred does not mind the liberty.

He feels strangely jealous, looking at Uhtred’s dumbfounded expression as he stares at his bride. He finds himself thinking, unbidden, that it is proof that Uhtred is not his soulmate—or at least, that he is not Uhtred’s. At first, he thought it was Brida; now, in the face of Uhtred’s astonishment, it seems likely to be Mildrith.

 

 

Uhtred does not question his presence in their journey to Mildrith’s estate—a place riddled with debt, as they discover.

The atmosphere between Uhtred and his new wife is no longer pleasant, fraught with a tension that only intensifies as they arrive at the estate and Uhtred sees the house and land that he is Lord of.

There is nothing Leofric can do to appease him, despite his effort, so he makes a hasty retreat. It is not that he thinks the newlyweds’ wedding night will consist of anything other than further arguing, but he finds he cannot stay in the house to confirm it.

(The image of Uhtred’s betrayed expression as he leaves the house stays with him, making sleep difficult to come by.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

Uhtred watches Leofric leave the hall, wondering if he has imagined the expression on Leofric’s face, or if it was truly there—fleeting and unchecked. He had looked—uncomfortable; that’s the only word Uhtred can think of, and he has no idea of the cause. Leofric is used to listening to heated discussion in the King’s council, so the tension between Mildrith and himself should not make him so eager to leave.

(He does not allow himself to dwell on Leofric’s comment about his wedding night.)

Later, when his wife is asleep, he sneaks out of the house and heads towards the barn. He does not know why he goes, only that he has become accustomed to having Leofric by his side, and even an evening without his company has seemed too long.

Leofric’s eyes open the moment he sets foot in the barn, alert and ready for action—when he sees it is only Uhtred he relaxes back against the hay, his expression softening.

“Sorry I woke you,” Uhtred murmurs, taking a seat on one of the haybales.

“No, you’re not,” Leofric says, but there is no heat behind the words.

“No, I’m not,” Uhtred agrees with a grin.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Leofric surmises.

Uhtred inclines his head. “Alfred,” he says, and that one word is enough for Leofric to look at him with understanding.

“I told you, the bastard thinks,” Leofric says, but he at least looks sympathetic to Uhtred’s plight.

“I’m sorry I involved you in this,” he says quietly. “I know Alfred wants to keep an eye on me, but I shouldn’t have dragged you here.”

If Leofric is surprised by the news that it is due to Uhtred that he is here, he covers it quickly. “I do as the King commands,” he shrugs, and says nothing further.

Uhtred wonders if he is glad of it anyway, but there is nothing in Leofric’s expression to say so.

 

 

If Leofric resents the long months spent on the estate, he says nothing—even though it means a return to the life he knew before, toiling in the fields. Uhtred does not know how to voice his thanks, but nor does Leofric ask it of him.

He can no longer deny the friendship that has developed between them and tries to tell himself that he is grateful for that, if nothing else.

(He ignores the ache in his chest at the thought that it may be all they will ever have.

It is perhaps the first time he has actually been glad that Leofric is his soulmate and mourned the thought that he may not be Leofric’s.)

In the heat of summer, Leofric forgoes his heavy armour in favour of wearing a loose-fitting shirt, and Uhtred wishes the sight did not make his heart beat so rapidly in his chest, watching the muscles of Leofric’s arms bunch and relax as he harvests the crops. He wishes he did not know how it looks to see Leofric break into a sweat, running a hand across his brow, and grinning across at him.

(He wishes the image didn’t come to him at night, in his dreams.

He wakes sometimes, flustered with the knowledge that Leofric is only a few paces away, having finally agreed to take a room in the house. His face burns with shame at the path his thoughts have taken.

Those nights, sleep is elusive afterwards.)

That is not to say he does not become fond of his wife—he does. She is the sort of girl he used to imagine marrying, when he was a boy: red-haired, pretty, dutiful. But he is no longer a child—no longer a slave—and it is only right that his imaginings have similarly adapted. He has found a companionship he could never have expected.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Leofric will never confess it to Uhtred, but it is a relief to see the movement of Danish soldiers on the horizon. After the months of manual labour, there is more of a familiarity in returning to war than the work of his childhood.

Then he catches sight of Uhtred’s expression and knows that he feels the same.

“Back to war,” he murmurs, quiet enough for only Uhtred to hear.

“Back to Alfred,” Uhtred responds, and Leofric is warmed by the knowledge that it is only he who understands the reluctance in his voice.

 

 

He almost cannot believe it of himself, speaking out in front of the King in support of Uhtred. Months ago, he would not have deemed it possible, but now he stands next to the man like an equal—that is how Uhtred treats him.

Uhtred kisses Mildrith goodbye on the steps. Leofric does not want to watch the tender exchange—all too aware of the feelings stirring in his chest—but finds that he cannot look away.

“Arseling!” he calls out, unable to bear it any longer.

Uhtred pulls away from his wife and grins down at him. Leofric cannot help but return the smile in spite of himself.

 

 

Uhtred is by his side as they face the fortress of Werham, now in the hands of the Danes. Leofric raises his voice to carry the King’s words along the ranks of men; his battle cry riling them up. Uhtred gives him a proud smile—the expression tugs at something within him.

His smile does not last after their meeting with the Danes, as the King asks for Uhtred to come to him after prayers. Leofric is wary of his intentions.

“Be careful,” he warns, in the few moments he gets alone with Uhtred.

It is a pointless comment, as he discovers only a short while later when Uhtred strides into their tent, an expression of resigned disbelief on his face. Leofric raises an eyebrow in query.

“He is sending me as a hostage,” Uhtred explains, “to be his eyes and ears inside the fortress.”

Leofric pales. “You can’t.” It’s not an argument. If Uhtred goes, he will surely die.

(He finds can’t lose him. He can’t.)

“I’ll escape,” Uhtred promises, although the conviction does not quite reach his eyes. He knows as well as Leofric that escape will be near impossible. “Alfred may not trust me, but I will not give him the satisfaction of dying as a captive under his orders. No chance.”

 

 

Dusk begins to fall, signalling Uhtred’s departure.

Leofric cannot bring himself to join the ranks of men lining the edge of the forest to watch the exchange of hostages. Instead, he finds himself summoned to the King’s tent, along with Lord Odda and his son. The nobles sit there, drinking, eating, and discussing tactics as though it is nothing to them that Uhtred is in danger.

(It only matters to him, he knows it—

And he knows why.)

He leaves shortly afterwards, excusing himself under the pretence of joining the men. He cannot share in their optimism of the King’s plan any longer. He does not go towards the firelight, however—returning instead to his tent.

That night, he looks at the words branded above his hipbone and thinks of all the people over the years who have spoken them. He doesn’t need to wonder any longer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It is a relief to Uhtred, finding Ragnar within the fortress. Perhaps there is a chance he will make it out alive, after all.

The first thing Ragnar says to him is, “Now you are where you belong.” Leofric is too far from him for that to be the case, but he is glad to be with his brother once more.

After these long months, it is strange to see Brida standing there in front of him. Once, he had imagined that she would be his future, but it is not a future either of them were destined for.

“You should know I’m with Ragnar now,” she tells him, whispering the words directly into his ear. “He’s my man.”

“He’s yours?” he asks, looking into her eyes. She nods, and he can read the truth of it there.

“And the Saxon?” she murmurs quietly, ensuring that no one else can hear. He is in enough danger without that particular secret being exposed.

He shakes his head. Perhaps there will be a time for that conversation, but it is not now. “You should know that I’m married,” he tells her instead, allowing Ragnar to join in their discussion. He knows Brida is unsurprised by the news; she had always expected this outcome.

She does, however, look at him with sad understanding when Ragnar says they must talk of the future.

(He cannot think of blood feuds without thinking of Leofric’s words to him. He finds he wants Leofric to be by his side when they reclaim Bebbanburg.)

 

 

They do not quite get chance for the conversation, that night. They talk of Ragnar, and of Mildrith. Brida’s disdain is undisguised—they both know there is more to the situation than land and a title and a wife.

But he cannot agree to join her and Ragnar, despite her entreaty. He thought that she would understand his reasons better than anyone. Now even she is a stranger to him.

Perhaps he has made his choice. Perhaps, despite all his arguments to the contrary, he is a Saxon.

 

 

The peace is over, and to Uhtred’s surprise, it is Ragnar who saves him. To have his forgiveness, it is a blessing greater than words can express.

He makes his way up the hill towards Alfred’s beacon, lighting the flame. He wonders where Leofric is, and whether he will be glad to see him alive.

 

 

It takes another long few days before he reaches Cynuit.

If Leofric is relieved to see him again, it is not immediately apparent—the steel of his sword pressing against Uhtred's neck, and insults on his tongue. For a wild moment, Uhtred fears that the weeks of absence have weakened their bond of friendship.

But it is not long before a wide smile is breaking onto Leofric’s face, and then they are pulling each other close and Uhtred is clasped to him in a brief but fond embrace. He marvels at the fact that Leofric is unable to hold back from him either.

(He hopes it is for the same reason that he has yearned to have Leofric in his arms.)

There is a kind of boundless joy he feels at being in Leofric’s company once more, and it seems that Leofric shares his elation as they continue to exchange laughs and smiles.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The relief Leofric feels at seeing Uhtred alive, and Uhtred choosing to stay—

(— _with him_ , his traitorous mind supplies.)

—it does not last long. It is Lord Odda who imparts the news that Uhtred has taken it upon himself to go down to the coast and try to burn the Danish ships. Alone. It is this that rankles most with Leofric—that he would have gone too, if Uhtred had only asked it of him.

(He would go anywhere, if Uhtred asked it.)

He knows where his loyalty now lies, and it is no longer with Lord Odda. But it is clear that Uhtred does not feel the same, or he would have shared his plan with Leofric.

 

 

Despite the betrayal he feels, he cannot bear the thought of leaving Uhtred without the support Lord Odda had promised. He keeps his eyes trained on the horizon—on the flames leaping from the ships—where he knows Uhtred is.

He is torn. If Odda’s order is to flee, it will be dangerous to disobey, but to leave Uhtred down there alone would mean certain death.

Luckily, it does not come to that.

 

 

It is first light before Leofric can break away from his duties in the aftermath of the battle and join Uhtred. He drops down next to him, their legs brushing as he settles.

(He pushes down the surge of yearning at the contact.)

Their fingers rest against each other’s for a moment as he passes over a beaker of water. Uhtred does not flinch, nor immediately pull away.

He wants to talk about the battle—wants to talk about _before_ the battle—but there are no words to express how close he came to losing Uhtred. No words that Uhtred would welcome hearing, anyway.

But he knows what has to happen now.

Uhtred does not welcome hearing this either. Yet Leofric cannot blame him for wanting to return to his wife and see his child. He only fears that the King will not understand.

 

 

Leofric is in his tent, at last removing the blood and grime of battle from his body—chainmail and shirt pooled unceremoniously at his feet—when Uhtred strides in purposefully. Leofric assumes he is here to resume their earlier discussion, or to bid him goodbye before he leaves, but he doesn’t get chance to find out.

Uhtred’s eyes are fixed on the revealed skin of his stomach—at the words shining there, above his hip.

“You,” he whispers, so quietly that Leofric is almost afraid he has imagined it.

“I—?” he prompts gently, feeling the urge to cover himself in the face of Uhtred’s undisguised fascination.

Uhtred’s eyes, when he looks up, are wild and startled. Then he lifts up his own shirt.

It is Leofric’s turn to stare. Uhtred’s mark is also above his hipbone, and his words—

His words are the first Leofric said to him, that day on the steps in Winchester—so long ago now it feels like he was a different person.

(In a way, he is. That man could never have been friends with a Dane, never mind look at his mark and not feel repulsed by the truth it yields. Now, he feels—

Well, repulsion is the furthest thing from his mind.)

“You,” he manages, suddenly understanding Uhtred’s woeful inability to articulate his feelings at the sight.

Uhtred smiles, slow and warm and unfurling. “I,” he confirms.

All Leofric wants is to be able to reach out and press his fingers to the words on Uhtred’s skin—his words. But now is not the time. Maybe it never will be, for them.

He watches as Uhtred’s smile slowly slides off his face at the prolonged silence.

“I’m sorry,” Leofric finally whispers. He pulls his shirt back over his head, covering the words. “We can’t.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Uhtred had once thought that finding his soulmate would be the most difficult part, followed by finding out whether it was mutual.

It turns out it is neither. What is hardest is trying to find a way forwards now he knows that it is.

“It changes nothing,” Leofric maintains, voice as soft as Uhtred has ever heard it, but still adamant. “It can’t.”

“If I’d known, before—”

(—before marrying someone else. Before falling in love with someone else.)

“It couldn’t have changed that, either. We all sell ourselves in one way or another.” Leofric smiles wryly. “Besides, you’ve hardly been short of companions.”

“But this is different,” Uhtred tries to insist, although he knows that this is one battle he is unlikely to win. Leofric is as stubborn as him in that respect.

As expected, Leofric shakes his head. “You have a wife, who you were so keen to return to only moments ago.”

“The King has had lovers,” he points out desperately, knowing that he is losing this particular fight. “This is not so dissimilar.”

It is the wrong thing to say—Leofric’s expression only darkens further. “I am nobody’s mistress.”

“I am not suggesting that—”

“My sister was,” Leofric explains, voice rising. Uhtred can tell it is without his volition; that he hadn’t expected to be so open. “She was Alfred’s mistress, and she bore him a son—and she was sent away like she was _nothing_.” He spits the final word, then looks away, visibly deflating. It is as though the fight has drained from him. “Return to your wife, Uhtred,” he says, not unkindly, with a small shake of his head. “ _A_ _fter_ seeing the King.”

“I will go to her now,” he scowls, stalking out of the tent. If Leofric is allowed to be stubborn, then he can be too.

 

 

The joy he feels at being reunited with Mildrith does not last, and, for the first time in a long time, the sight of Leofric does not calm him either.

Leofric was right, of course. Someone else had indeed claimed his kill for their own. He is angry—at Young Odda, at the King, and at himself for not listening to Leofric, despite everything.

It is Wulfhere, not Leofric, who is sent to deliver his punishment. He is grateful for that, at least. He does not think he would be able to bear hearing the words from Leofric’s mouth.

He is thankful for Leofric, too. He is certain, no matter what has happened between them, that Leofric would not wish to see him humiliated in this way. He cannot imagine what it would have taken for him to mete out a punishment he would not ever wish to see Uhtred suffer.

 

 

Leofric finds him that night, in the tavern. Uhtred allows himself a small moment of savage pleasure in Leofric seeing him enjoying the company of women, but it does not last.

The days apart have only served to solidify the fact that Leofric is the only one who truly understands him.

“How are your knees?” Leofric asks, the trace of a smirk on his face, but his eyes are soft.

It is a relief to find that the rapport they have built together is still there. They have not lost themselves entirely. It is easy then to shift the woman from his lap and lean in towards Leofric.

“I cannot stay in Wessex,” Uhtred tells him.

“You have a wife. A child you could not wait to see,” Leofric says.

The reminder of their moment in the tent is too painful for him to bear. So much has changed, and he does not know how to begin to express it.

Luckily, he does not have to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Come with me,” Leofric murmurs, jerking his head towards the door—taking a chance at the expression he sees on Uhtred’s face at the mention of his wife.

He is surprised that Uhtred gets to his feet so quickly and follows him almost unthinkingly. It gives him faith that his daring is not misplaced.

“Where are we going?” Uhtred asks eventually, as they ascend the stone steps into the fort.

“My chamber,” Leofric murmurs, keeping out of the torchlight as they move swiftly down the corridor. He can see Uhtred’s stunned expression, even in the dim light. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t.” Uhtred still sounds hurt, but not accusatory.

“No, I _couldn’t_ ,” Leofric points out, “there’s a difference.”

They reach the end of the corridor and the door to his chamber. A quick glance confirms that they are definitely alone.

Uhtred turns to him as soon as the door closes behind them, his eyes beseeching. “So—what’s changed?”

“You tell me.” It comes out not as a retort, thankfully, but the plea it is intended to be. He has his suspicions, but he wants Uhtred to confirm it.

Uhtred scuffs his boot against the stone floor, a scowl momentarily returning to his face. But when he looks up at Leofric once more, there is only certainty in his expression.

“My wife and I no longer see eye to eye—about anything, it seems.” There is a moment of quiet reflection. “Whatever regard there was, it's there no longer.”

“And you do know that the God you defy, the faith that you so despise in your wife and King—it is mine, too,” Leofric cautions.

“If you want this, you’re going the wrong way about it,” Uhtred jokes, pulling off his jacket and dropping it to the floor. He must see the sincerity in Leofric’s eyes because he sobers quickly. “I do know it. But you are the only person who has accepted that it is not mine. The only person who doesn’t expect me to change, and cares about me anyway. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Leofric can only nod, a lump in his throat.

His fingers find the hem of Uhtred’s shirt and sneak under to gently brush against his hipbone. Uhtred pulls the garment over his head almost impatiently, allowing Leofric to see the words there as he traces them for the first time—cautious yet reverent.

In all his years, he had never expected to find this.

He glances up, and Uhtred’s eyes are fixed intently on the path of his fingertip, the longing clear on his face.

He had not expected to find that either.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Armour—off,” Uhtred commands roughly, desperate to see his own words on Leofric’s skin again.

He cannot resist leaning in and lifting away the heavy mail coat once Leofric has removed his surcoat, his undershirt swiftly following them to the floor.

This time, unlike the last, he is determined to prove that what they have is too important to dismiss, despite the difficulties.

He drops to his knees.

Leofric’s eyes widen in surprise, but the action does not feel like it did earlier. He may fall to his knees for no god and no king, but Leofric has not demanded it of him. It is not for penance—does not carry with it humiliation and shame. It is deference of a different kind.

He leans in and presses his lips to the soft skin of Leofric’s stomach—to the words there. Above him, he hears Leofric’s breath leave him in a rush.

This is the moment he has dreamed about for years. He tells Leofric this, looking up to see the smile spread across his face.

“I don’t suppose you imagined it like this though, arseling.”

Uhtred returns his smile. “Perhaps not,” he admits, “but I would not change it now.”

“Me neither,” Leofric agrees, helping him to his feet and leading him towards the bed tucked in the corner of the room.

Once they are settled amongst the furs, Uhtred reaches down to trace his words—those that belong to Leofric, on his skin.

“You know, I hated you for the longest time,” he confesses, and is glad that Leofric laughs, a short huff of surprised amusement. “ _Arseling_ —I mean, honestly.”

“I didn’t know you then,” Leofric murmurs. “I didn’t know you were mine.” His fingers cover Uhtred’s.

Uhtred cannot hide his surprise. “You didn’t?”

“How many people do you think have said that to me?” Leofric says, gesturing down at his words.

Uhtred presses his fingers to them. He had never considered that Leofric might have heard his words spoken before. “So, you didn’t know, until that day in the tent?” He had not thought to be grateful for that moment, until now.

“That confirmed it,” Leofric agrees, “but, in truth, I knew before then.” Uhtred opens his mouth to ask, but Leofric does not need the prompt. “Werham,” he explains, clasping Uhtred’s hand in his. “I could not bear to lose you.”

It is too overwhelming an admission for Uhtred to find the words to express it, but luckily, he has always been a man of action.

Leofric does not startle as Uhtred moves down his body to press another kiss to his hipbone, as close to worship as he will ever get.

 

 

When the sun rises the next morning, Uhtred wakes with Leofric lying next to him—something he has yearned for over the years spent sleeping so close together, but never in each other’s arms.

Beside him, Leofric stirs. He wraps his arm around Uhtred’s waist, pulling him closer. His voice is still rough with sleep when he murmurs, “Morning, Uhtred.”

Uhtred smirks. “Call me by my name,” he teases.

Leofric’s laugh is a soft huff of breath against his ear. “Arseling.”

There is such fond affection in the word—in the way Leofric’s voice curls around it—that Uhtred cannot believe he ever hated it. He supposes it is because he no longer hates the person it belongs to, and they no longer hate him.

Although he doesn’t know what their future holds, he knows, in that moment, that he will be able to face anything as long as they are together.

 

 


End file.
